You've Got Sucker's Luck
by wrathkitty
Summary: Loki's accord with the dying Allfather (atone for his actions, assume Odin's identity, and in return see Frigga again in Valhalla) was to cost him his magic, not his pride. He finds both to be in short supply after an unfortunate encounter with SHIELD, a mortal, and the foul Midgardian concoction known as a 'caramel macchiato.' Formerly titled Cruorem, M for lang. Loki/OC, post-T2
1. Prologue

_You've Got Sucker's Luck_

* * *

Prologue

* * *

SHIELD had done him one worse than a glass cage – a windowless interrogation cell.

After escorting him in and securing his new set of handcuffs to the table (all the while ignoring his snide remarks about the Spartan accommodations; that he hoped whoever was responsible for devising such a horrid colour scheme had been properly flogged; and if he might take Direct Fury up on that long-standing offer of a magazine?), his guards grimly departed.

Loki settled back in his seat and took an eager look at his surroundings. He was in excellent spirits, although as far as creating diversions went, this chamber had very little to offer: the table, three chairs, and a large flagon of water that stood upright in the corner. He considered draining the contents onto the floor just to watch them mop up the flood, but disliked the thought of getting his boots wet. The one-way mirror he sat across from, however, beckoned with a number of possibilities.

_What to do, what to do…Oooh. _

Loki beamed at his reflection – and whoever watched him on the other side of the silvery glass – and began changing his appearance to the various Avengers, taking care that each rendition was more brutally interpreted than the one preceding.

Stark in a red-and-gold chastity belt that mimicked the design of his tin can suit. The soldier, decapitated, his head resting atop his ubiquitous shield. Loki was especially proud of his rendition of Natasha Romanov as the Hulk, although even he felt a little discomfited by the grotesque sight of Banner's alter-ego wearing a bodysuit.

He was masquerading as Clint Barton (with the addition of frilly shirtsleeves and an arrow pierced through his skull) when he heard the muffled-but-unmistakable droning of Nick Fury's voice.

Barton's normally-stoic mouth curved into a smile that belonged on a very different face, which shimmered away and was replaced by Loki's own. _Let the games begin,_ he thought to himself as he re-donned his normal form. Holding his head high, that same mercurial smirk playing about his mouth, he fixed his eyes on the door and waited.

A faint beep sounded, followed by the low-pitched whine of retracting electronic bolts.

"Agent Coulson," Loki exclaimed, unable to completely conceal his surprise as the man stepped into the room, Nick Fury trailing at his heels. "You seem to have made a complete recovery since we last met," he continued pleasantly as they approached his table, "although I was unaware that SHIELD had been dabbling in resurrection. I must say, that _is_ impressive."

Coulson glanced over to his colleague, who was staring silent, one-eyed daggers at their prisoner. "Did he just pay us a compliment?"

"Yeah," his dark-complexioned compatriot rumbled, not taking his eyes off of Loki. "I'm blushing."

"Actually," Coulson remarked after a pause, pulling out a chair and taking a seat across from Loki, "the same could be said about you."

He raised an eyebrow. "That I'm blushing?"

"No," Fury said shortly. "We've been operating under the presumption all this time that you were dead. And given how you treated Earth on your last visit," the director continued, his voice growing sarcastic, "I'm sure you can understand why it was our preference that you _stayed_ dead."

"Ooh." Loki winced, as if he'd been stung. "You wound me, gentlemen."

"Only in our dreams," Fury retorted.

He proffered the Director an indulgent smile. "And such sweet ones they would be, would they not? Tell me," he said suddenly; his tone remained conversational but his eyes were now blazing with contempt, "how _did_ your little organization react when Thor brought to you the glad tidings of my demise? Did you celebrate? Was there merrymaking in the streets? Were your people so moved that they felt compelled to –"

"If by 'moved' you mean 'burning photos of you in effigy,' then, yes, we were all very moved," Coulson calmly interjected.

The man had perfected the art of unflappable indifference, and despite his otherwise dull personality, Loki couldn't help but admire him for it. Still, there was something different about him – something that had fundamentally _changed_ since their last encounter…

_Suffering,_ he realized.

Fury was blathering on again but Loki paid him no mind, his attention focused solely upon the mortal seated before him. He possessed only vague familiarity with Midgardian physiology, but he did not need their title of 'doctor' to know that Coulson's wound had been fatal, and neither did he require their degree in 'rocket science' to know that the means of Coulson's reanimation had been barbaric. This was a man who had experienced profound suffering, and not of his own making.

"…Are you even _paying_ attention to any of this?"

Loki continued to ignore Fury, still locked in a staring match with the dark-haired man across the table. Coulson steadily returned his scrutinizing gaze, unaffected, unafraid.

"How _did_ they accomplish it?" he breathed after a time. It was then that shadows began to gather in Coulson's eyes, and Loki gave him a knowing look, his voice almost gentle as he finished, "And were you a willing participant?"

This was not a question; everyone present knew the answer, and although Coulson showed no reaction, his colleague's tightly-clenched fists spoke volumes.

"We're not here to discuss me," Coulson answered, calm as ever. The faintest of smiles touched his mouth as he added, "But thanks for the concern."

Loki did not immediately respond. He held no regard for Coulson, or any other mortal, for that matter. But the one remaining shred of decency left in him – the part he both denied and desperately clung to, the part he hoped with every beat of his cold, dead heart that his mother could see – felt a pang of empathy for the man.

A very, very _small_ pang.

"Learn from your minion, Director Fury," he said finally, making a show of studying the calluses on his palms as he spoke, "for he is a far better expert than you at hiding culpability."

His barb found its mark; Fury's fists were as close to white-knuckled as they could possibly be, whereas Coulson either missed or chose to ignore the unspoken implications in Loki's cryptic advice.

"Let's get back to the matter at hand," Coulson suggested. "Was Thor lying when he told us you had been killed?"

Loki smirked and adjusted the cuff on his left wrist to a more comfortable spot. "He was, ah…misinformed. A chronic habit of his, I'm afraid."

"Then how about you _re_-inform us," Fury suggested coolly, "because as usual, you seem to have all the answers."

"The answers, perhaps," Loki chuckled, "but certainly not the advantage." He raised his bound wrists, hardening his voice as he asked, "Or should I lower myself to your base expectations and end this farce now?"

His icy threat hung there, looming, but neither man seemed particularly intimidated.

Coulson shrugged and pushed his seat back from the table. "You can tell us the whole story," he offered as he rose to his feet, "or you can tell Thor. We notified him as soon as Agent Hill alerted us. He should be here in…"

With timing so diabolical Loki swore they must have rehearsed it, thunder boomed in the distance just as Coulson finished, "…in about three minutes."

_Damn._

He knew that SHIELD would waste no time contacting Thor, but he never anticipated them being able to reach him so quickly. As of that morning, his brother and Jane Foster were holed up at a radio telescope observatory in a remote region of South America – hardly within calling distance. He had clearly erred in underestimating Thor's capacity to learn the ways of other Midgard communication devices.

The agents continued to stand there, smug as cats, as they tried to gauge his reaction to this news. Loki would have liked nothing better than to string their puny necks together with Fury's eye patch, but he quelled the urge and instead cast a withering smile at them both.

"As much as I love the thought of a family reunion," he said, sarcasm dripping from every word, "you really shouldn't have gone to all the trouble."

For the first time since he'd laid eyes on him, Fury almost looked pleased. "It was no trouble at all," he said. "In fact, it was a damn pleasure."

"We'll be back later," Coulson promised as they walked to the door.

Loki's smile dropped from his face as soon they were gone; his mind was racing at breakneck speeds, trying to devise a means of escape that did not rely on magic or murder. Were he at home, he would simply create a duplicate and cast an invisibility spell, but keeping a simulacrum of Odin on standby, and maintaining enough power to _operate_ said simulacrum all the way from the opposite end of Yggdrasil was a different matter altogether. Mortals he could outrun, but Thor, he could not. He could, however, outwit him…

Another crack of thunder pealed, so loud that it rattled the windowpanes, and he flinched. _Showoff, _he grumbled silently to the table_. _There was a flash of green light, and the silver cuffs around his wrists vanished. His face impassive, he eased back into his seat, hands loosely clasped in his lap, and waited.

Thirty seconds later, Loki heard pounding footsteps, followed by the sound of arguing, which progressively increased in volume the closer their respective owners came to his cell. The security door slammed open, and then he heard the ringing _clangs_ of expensive – broken – locking mechanisms tumbling to the floor.

Involuntarily, Loki's gaze lifted, and the massive person standing framed in the doorway filled his vision.

Thor.

Affable, foolish, forgiving Thor.

_ Damn him. _

Their eyes met, churning Loki's mind into an unwanted frenzy, dredging up memories of Svartalfheim –

_"You fool," Thor told him, anguished. "You didn't listen."_

_ This wasn't supposed to happen. Yet here he was, impaled, lying in his brother's arms, the life ebbing away from him with every ragged breath he took._

_ "I know," he gasped. He was cold, so cold. "I'm a fool…I'm a fool – " His voice choked; it was becoming difficult to think, to speak –_

_ He felt Thor's hand on his cheek. "Stay with me, okay?" he pleaded. "Stay with me."_

_ "I'm sorry," he answered, babbling. His vision was starting to dim, but his eyes doggedly sought out his brother's face and tried to focus. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."_

_ Thor was hushing him now, telling him it was alright, just as he'd done when they were boys and he fell from his horse or had nightmares or was teased by other children. _

_ "…I'll tell Father what you did here today."_

_ He'd started to drift away, but gazed up at Thor in wonderment when he heard this. "I didn't do it for him," he said._

_ Father. Odin. Father…_

_ …No._

_**NO!**_

_ He would __**not**__ permit himself to die on this accursed planet without having his final say with Odin. He __**refused**__. As he'd told Thor during their mad journey to Svaltarfheim, satisfaction was not in his nature, and if he was destined to be twice-damned, then it would be on **his** terms, and his alone._

_ This flicker of rage, weak as it was, brought with it a bit of clarity, and a solution occurred to him, one so obvious, so simple, that he would have thought of it sooner had he not been fixated on his impending demise. He looked at his brother a final time and then let his body go limp, lapsing into a state of semi-awareness. _

_ Thor left him soon after, accompanied by Jane Foster. As soon as he was certain they would not return, he fought his way back to consciousness and set his plans into motion. He took a gurgling breath, filling his lungs with as much oxygen as he could – one, two, three times he did this, all the while resisting the instinct to cough on the blood that had accumulated his throat. He gasped a fourth time but did not exhale, and instead reached inward, tripping the invisible valve that divided man and monster. _

_ His Jotun nature surged forth, coursing throughout his body in a frozen crest of triumph – and pain. Pain that he didn't feel at first, or perhaps he simply ignored because this was _going to work._He could survive this, and he would endure, just as he always had; but this pain was going to drive him into madness if he didn't get a hold of it, and quickly, too; for Hel stepped ever closer, calling his name, Loki, Loki, Loki; and somewhere in the distance he could hear screams – his own. _

_ He did not have the luxury of screaming! _

_ He clamped his mouth shut but it was too late; those screams had taken with them the little energy he'd held back to try to save himself. Ice couldn't save him now, it was over; he'd fought the battle but lost the war; what choice did he have left but to surrender to fate and failure? He was clinging to life by a thread now, its tenuous fibers splitting one by one as he watched – he was going to die, leaving life as he'd entered it, abandoned – _

_ His last conversation with Frigga echoed in his ears – _Am I not your mother? …You are not – _and he cried out, trying to call her name, but blood filled his mouth, choking him, and in a fit of despair, just to have the sick satisfaction of seeing himself fail – again – he flung his last remnant of hope at that fraying thread and transformed it into an icicle. The result was no more than a wisp of ice, one heartbeat away from shattering; it slipped out of his grip and he started to fall. _

Fool_, he thought to himself. _

_ He was too caught up in his own self-loathing to notice that the crystalline filament he'd created had in fact _not_ broken but was now reaching for him. Its soft, wintry touch caught him by the wrist and then held fast, a saving grace of ice. _

_ Now he was able to go to work. The blood rushing through his veins cooled to an icy slush, freezing his body from the inside out. Spidery cobwebs of hoarfrost began creeping over his skin, slowly at first, then faster, building layer upon layer until he was encased from head-to-foot in an inches-thick coating of ice. His pulse slowed to a near-stop, holding him a hair's breadth away from the gates of Helheim, and there he remained…freezing…resting…healing. _

Neither spoke. Thor just stood there, staring in crestfallen dismay, Mjolnir hanging forgotten at his side, as Loki looked back at him, his eyes two malevolent pools of glacier blue.

Unable to tolerate the silence any longer, Loki plastered a leering smile on his face and took the first volley: "What a surprise," he said lightly. "You never came to see me when I was imprisoned in Asgard, yet you are among my first visitors here. Would that be considered irony, brother?"

Thor made no reply as he stepped inside and closed the door. It was then that Loki noticed the heavy bronze cuffs dangling from Thor's belt, the very same magic-sealing shackles that he'd been forced into after his disastrous loss to the Avengers.

Beneath the table, Loki's fists clenched; unbidden, his magic responded in kind, invisible to the eye but palpable nevertheless. _Always the assumption of guilt, _his inner voice snarled. _Never the benefit of the doubt._

Thor had lived with, fought with, and loved Loki for far too long to not sense the rallying currents of his brother's sorcery, and his response was unmeasured and impulsive: Mjolnir now in hand, he sprang forward and in one blinding move knocked Loki out of his chair; both of them crashing into the adjacent wall a split-second later and leaving behind a Norse-god-sized impact crater upon the reinforced steel.

With the front of Loki's tunic ensnared in one hand, rune-emblazoned cuffs in the other, and holding him pinned in place with Mjolnir between them, Thor wasted no time in getting the shackles around his brother's wrists.

It was only afterwards that Thor realized Loki never made any attempt to defend himself.

The runes' circuit of power activated on contact, and Loki hissed as the most important of his senses was snuffed out, stealing away the acuity of his other senses as well. As the all-too-familiar fog entrenched his brain, he vaguely felt Thor release him, and he stumbled back towards the table. He knew from experience that these first few minutes were the worst – the general feeling of malaise, the piercing ache in his skull, an overwhelming urge to vomit – but the anticipation seemed to increase his symptoms tenfold.

He reached out for a chair and eased himself into it, taking deep, measured breaths as he went. His mouth and nose were filled with bitter aftertaste of Odin's binding sorcery – these cuffs were of his design – but Loki was too proud to make use of the water flagon, which had survived the melee unscathed. (Moreover, in his current state he also did not have the faintest idea how to operate the device.)

Slowly, as if lost in a dream, Thor joined Loki at the table and pulled out the remaining chair, but brought it around to the other side so he could sit down next to him. He carefully placed Mjolnir on the table and took a few deep breaths of his own. Finally, he raised his head and met Loki's baleful gaze.

"How many times must I mourn you, brother?" he asked sadly.

Loki let out a scornful snort of laughter and looked away, trying to ignore the pounding in his head; at least the nausea had started to subside.

"Given that you held a celebration after my first death, I believe the number remains at one," he said with an elegant sneer. "Oh, don't trouble yourself, Thor," he scoffed when he saw his brother flinch, "I'll do nothing that requires you to count higher than two."

"I watched you die!" Thor protested, voice rising. "I _felt_ it, when you – " He stopped short and he shook his head, swallowing hard. "How – how is this possible?" he rasped when he was able to speak again. "Why would you do such a thing – to me, to Father? I knew you were capable of cruelty, brother, but resort to such depths as –"

"Cruelty?" Loki repeated incredulously, cutting him off. The one part of him the cuffs did not subdue, it seemed, was his temper._"You,_ who abandoned me on Svartalfheim after I saved your useless hide, _and_ your precious Jane Foster – twice? And you speak to _me_ of cruelty?"

He was snarling now, beyond reason and blinded by hurt as he continued his rant, hissing, "You, who sit there from your throne of righteous indignation, accusing me of deceit and cruelty! Oh no, brother," he cried, flinging himself out of his seat so fast that the chair fell to the floor, "you will not lay my so-called sins at my feet, when you could have known the truth all along, had you _thought_ to take my body with you instead of leaving my corpse to rot – _why are you laughing?_"

Thor's shoulders were shaking in helpless mirth, but there was an undertone of hysteria to his laughter that kept Loki from killing him outright. With inordinate effort, he forced himself to harness his wrath and began to pace the length of the room, furiously waiting for the buffoon to cease his idiotic guffawing.

"Have you not been listening to yourself, cow?" Thor exclaimed when he could speak again. "Shouting at me over my lack of _sentiment_ because I did not immediately construct a pyre and send you off properly, never mind that we were in the midst of battle?"

At the word 'sentiment,' Loki came to an abrupt halt, stiffening.

"You never held the remains of the dead in such high esteem before," Thor continued pointedly from behind him. "Or do you not remember Great Aunt Snotra's funeral?"

"Yes, I remember," Loki snapped without turning around, "and it's not sentiment, it's principle. Besides," he added in a derisive mutter, "Great Aunt Snotra always found reason to box our ears whenever she watched us as children."

He heard Thor burst into laughter again. This time, however, his brother's chuckling seemed to come from a place of genuine amusement rather than sorrow. "Indeed she did," he agreed, a smile in his voice, "which is why you sent her off to Valhalla with earlobes that stretched down to her knees."

"I thought it a vast improvement," Loki sniffed, wholly unapologetic. "It distracted the eye from her face."

"Agreed," Thor replied, with feeling, "but Father gave us a worse thrashing than Aunt Snotra ever did, after we were found out." He paused before asking, "Was that not also the same night you set the curtains aflame in our bedchamber?"

Loki stifled the laugh that threatened to escape him; he knew what Thor was trying to accomplish, and he would not oblige him in this game of happy reminiscing, this _farce_ of fraternal camaraderie.

Sullen silence descended upon the cell once more, each brother lost in their own thoughts.

Thor tried again a few minutes later. "Loki –"

The pleading he heard in Thor's voice touched a nerve in Loki, nerves that were already worn raw from bearing up under the dampening effects of the cuffs, and something inside his heart snapped. He spun on his heel, face twisted into an unrecognizable mask of hatred, and took a prowling step forward.

"Look at you," he taunted; his voice wound lazily around Thor's ears, cutting into his brother's heart far deeper than any blade. Thor's face fell, and a crazed smile touched Loki's lips, dimpling his cheeks; his vision was starting to tunnel and his ears were roaring, but these words had remained unspoken for _too long_, and nothing would stop him now, not even a gods-cursed pair of magic-binding shackles.

"Look at you," he said again, "making appeals to brotherly fealty that never existed. Picking and choosing at your whim when you wished to show me favour, and when you did not." He chuckled, and it was a grating, ugly sound, and he added, "In truth, _brother,_ for all of Jane Foster's humbling influence, you are still the same narcissistic brute I remember. Why I was the only one to ever see it is a question I shall spend the rest of my days trying to answer.

"Or…! Or perhaps that was my _glorious purpose_ all along," he exclaimed suddenly, his eyes widening. He turned his gaze back towards Thor with that same awful smile. "My _true_ gift. To see through you. To see your faults, your weaknesses, to which everyone was always, persistently, _pitifully_ blind!"

Loki's voice was raw, his eyes had gone glassy with tears, and Thor found himself looking into the face of madness, of a man pushed beyond the brink of reason – a face he'd not seen since the day Loki came after him with Gugnir in the Bifrost observatory; even during the incident with the Tesseract, there had been a shred of sanity behind his brother's eyes, but not during their battle on the Asbru bridge, and certainly not in this person before him now.

"_Do you not understand?" _Loki cried out when Thor remained silent. He brandished his wrists, furious that Thor had – yet again! – missed the point. "You lock me in chains, and then expect me indulge you in regaling each other with tales from our childhood? Who would you have me be, _Son of Odin?"_ he spat, his voice rising to a shout. "Villain or victim? Brother or monster? _Because I cannot be all of –"_

_ "Tell me what you doing on Earth!"_ Thor bellowed, hand reaching for Mjolnir as he half-rose out of his seat.

Loki roared his answer into Thor's face: _**"PENANCE!"**_

It was not his volume, but his brother's reply that took the wind out of Thor's sails. The God of Thunder sank back down to his chair, openly staring – somehow, the thought of his brother rising from the dead was more comprehensible than the concept of him making reparations for past misdeeds.

"Penance?" he finally breathed in disbelief. "You?"

"I'm glad you find the concept to be so amusing," Loki grunted. His tone lacked its usual bravado; he was a little distracted, and trying very hard to understand why the room seemed to be standing on angle, and when he fell to his knees a second later, he experienced a momentary flash of panic that his brother had acquired magic powers of his own and duplicated himself, for what else could explain the two Thors who were reaching towards him?

Massive arms caught him before he could topple over and hauled him into a chair. Somewhere he heard the sound of liquid splashing into a cup, and he stubbornly made his eyes focus so he could watch the water dispenser in action. Its operation was marvelously simple, and a dazed smile came over his face.

_How ingenious,_ he thought, _and so much more hygienic than those wretched marble fountains. I shall have to put one in every chamber in Asgard, when I return. And re-assign the Warriors Three to flagon-refilling duty. _

A paper cup was placed into his shaking fingers, and hands steadier than his own helped him to drink, a few sips at first, and then a few more.

"Fool," Loki muttered when he'd drained the cup. He'd been referring to himself, but Thor was quick to reply:

"Who's the more foolish?" he asked, sitting down next to him. "The fool or the fool who follows him?"

Loki looked at Thor in genuine astonishment. "Jane Foster," he panted, still struggling to catch his breath, "is a miracle worker indeed to have not only tamed the mighty Thor, but turned him into a wit as well. Those cannot be your words."

Thor's smile was sheepish as he confessed, "No, they are not. It is a quotation, from one of Jane's favourite movies."

Loki blinked at him and crushed the empty paper cup in his hand, feeling uncharacteristically ignorant. "What is a 'movie?' "

Thor's brow puckered in a momentary frown as he thought about how to explain the concept. "Ah – a play, of sorts."

Loki had a retort poised on the tip of his tongue about Thor never before having an appreciation for the arts, but kept it to himself – he was simply too tired.

Thor correctly read the exhaustion in Loki's face, and his expression softened. He clapped a hand on Loki's shoulder, almost knocking him out of his chair in the process, and leaned forward.

"I would have you tell me the truth," he requested softly, ducking his head a few inches to look his brother in the eye, "now, when I have a chance of getting an honest answer from you." His voice dropped to a heartfelt whisper as he finished, "For in this moment, I have you back, brother – and this time…I will not let you go."

* * *

_So, FYI for you lovely, lovely people who have favourited/followed this story since I initially posted it…First, thank you **tremendously **for the support. Second, upon consultation with a friend, I decided the original title ("Cruorem," which means "blood" in Latin) was shit and changed it. Sorry for the switcharound. I've also done some rearranging of chapters - nothing's changed, just the order of how the scenes played out._

_For a more in-depth perspective at the sordid details surrounding Great Aunt Snotra's funeral, take a hop, skip, and a click over to my author page and feast your eyes on "To my brother, Thor, whom I slept with."_

_Thanks so much again for reading! If you feel so inclined, drop me a note - any and all feedback is appreciated, and I always respond. The lunacy of my replies is directly correlated to my level of sleep deprivation, which as of late has been significant. Hilarity will ensue, I assure you. Oh God it's 4 AM. _


	2. Chapter One

_You've Got Sucker's Luck_

* * *

Chapter One:

Exile/It takes your mind again (Repeat)

* * *

If Loki believed in the Norns (which he didn't), even he could admit that they possessed a sense of humor as wicked as his own. He, who spent all his life longing to emerge from the shadows, now sat on the throne of Asgard – and yet was forced to cloak himself under Odin's visage. It goaded him to not receive credit where it was due, but this was a necessary sacrifice. Loki Laufeyson was dead, lost to legends, nightmares and the occasional op-ed piece in Midgardian newspapers.

With a sigh, he took a reluctant sip of the beverage he'd ordered and glanced at his watch. Three-thirty. Another sixty minutes of boredom to endure.

_What a useless device,_ he mused, studying the sweeping hand of the Omega he'd conjured around his wrist. The passage of time meant something very different to his kind than it did to mortals. Still, it was important to keep up appearances, and Luke LaFey – the identity he generally assumed during these periodic visits to Midgard – was a man of impeccable taste. And in that particular moment, he was also a man who preferred to spend his idle moments lingering over a cup of designer coffee.

This was one of a number of traits he did not share with his doppelganger; by nature he hated waiting, and it had not been his intention to arrive early. His uneasy truce with Heimdall, however, did not extend to matters involving petty pranks, and the Bifrost had deposited him in Manhattan, Nevada rather than Manhattan, New York. Upon finding himself in the deserted gravel parking lot of a tavern called 'Miner's Saloon,' Loki immediately began to plan an appropriate retaliation against his all-seeing, all-knowing and no doubt completely unrepentant gatekeeper. Rumor had it that Heimdall disliked cats, which the _correct_ Manhattan had in abundance. Perhaps he would grace the observatory with one or two felines upon his return. Or two hundred.

The error was soon remedied, but left him with three hours to spare and nothing with which to occupy himself. Wreaking his own particular brand of havoc would have provided easy entertainment, of course – it had been a century or two since he'd last transformed the mortals' precious paper currency into frogs – but he knew that indulging in such mischief would only cause headaches later. And so he began to walk instead.

The tell-tale signs of battle remained throughout Manhattan, even nearly three years after he and the Chitauri laid waste to the city. Razed buildings still sat amidst the lumbering monuments, along with barricaded areas where rubble had not yet been removed, and faded homemade memorials. Damning evidence, all of it.

But as he wandered the streets, sometimes returning the occasional smile offered to him by passersby, he sensed that the people were healing, and this knowledge pleased him. His attempts at penance were for his mother's sake only, but he was keenly familiar with the festering pain of emotional wounds. Humanity's dogged resilience was as admirable as it was foolish, but it was a credit to them nevertheless.

An unexpected downpour had forced him to seek refuge in a nearby coffee shop, where he now sat pretending to enjoy a foul concoction in a paper cup and sincerely regretting his decision to order the first item he'd seen on the menu. When had need to visit Midgard again, he would be sure to avoid anything bearing the name 'caramel macchiato.'

_I despise this realm_, he thought to himself, forcing down another cloying swallow of coffee. _Its sights, its smells, its sounds…everything. _

The mild expression on his face concealed the vehemence of his abstraction_. _Given a choice, he would have scorched the little blue planet off every map of Yggdrasil in Asgard and ordered Heimdall to never again aim the Bifrost in its direction. But thanks to five humans and their overgrown green brute, he was forced to keep Midgard under his purview.

For would-be superheroes, they were maintaining surprisingly low profiles. Banner was in whatever poverty-stricken part of the globe he hadn't already visited, in self-exile once more. Romanov and Barton had hired themselves out to MI6 in another attempt to prove to no one but themselves that their relationship was strictly professional. Rogers was his usual pedantic, patriotic self; and as for Thor…well, domestic felicity certainly suited him.

Stark was last on his list, and an invitation from Stark Industries (addressed to one Luke LaFey, Esq.), had provided Loki with a convenient opportunity to observe the eponymous figurehead's antics – and latest groundbreaking achievements in facial hair – from a polite distance and then return home.

He sighed and checked his watch again. Three forty-five.

Under the guise of watching the rain, he shifted his focus to the window adjacent to him; it reflected the interior of the coffee shop, allowing him to surreptitiously observe his fellow patrons.

_A god among men, truly, _he thought, hiding his smirk behind his cup.

The woman at the table behind him typed away on a laptop, stalwartly ignoring the young man across the room who was vying for her attention. Two children, squabbling under the weary supervision of their parents. An elderly woman, clad in ill-fitting garments and causing a delay at the register, much to the ire of the red-faced man who stood in line behind her.

"Skim or lowfat?" she dithered aloud, a thoughtful finger tapping her chin. "Sugar free or agave? Extra whip? Medium whip? Sprinkles? Syrup? Ooh, do you take coupons from other stores? What about cheques?"

As he watched this one-way tête-à-tête unfold, Loki almost wanted to laugh. Perhaps the Avengers had done him a favor, sparing him from being sovereign to such a lowly species. Burdened with glorious purpose, indeed. He would have been the laughingstock of the nine realms.

_What dull, self-absorbed creatures._ _Bereft of dignity, and still suffering for want of a leader to rule them. How I could have changed their lives for the better, all of them, if only –_

He stiffened in his chair, realizing the direction his mind was trying to take him.

_ No. There is no "if,"_ he reminded himself sternly. _It is done. My only hope is that she is watching from Valhalla, and takes solace in what she sees. _

This was followed by another thought:_ Frigga of Asgard's prodigal son. Guilty, never to be proven innocent. _

Tears suddenly blurred his vision, although none fell.

The altercation-in-progress at the register spared him from further dalliances down the dangerous path known as self-reflection; having finally decided upon what to order, the old lady had commenced with payment, but not swiftly enough to the satisfaction of the man waiting behind her. Cheerfully oblivious to his impatience, she wrote out a check for one dollar and fifteen cents, handed it to the barista, and then took her time re-calculating the remaining balance in her ledger before putting everything away in her purse.

"Oh, wait!" she exclaimed suddenly. She pulled out a small slip of paper from her bag, beaming, and said, "I _did_ have the right coupon! Is it too late to do an adjustment?"

"Are you fuckin' kidding me?" the man exploded. "I don't have time for this shit!"

Loki's eyes narrowed.

The mortal's litany of muttered profanities continued as the barista hastily re-calculated the woman's bill and then directed her to the pick-up counter to wait for her drink. She didn't get in any hurry, and as a result was nearly plowed down when the man shoved her aside.

"Large coffee, black, I'm payin' with a credit card, and no, I don't want the receipt," he barked at the barista.

"Regular or decaf?"

"Regular," he snapped. Then he turned to the woman and said with a sneer, "See? Was that so hard? Jesus!"

"Oh, I'm sorry," she apologized nervously, clutching her purse. "This is just such a treat for me – "

"Then next time just do us all a favor and stay home with your goddamn NesCafe," he snarled. He grabbed his drink from the barista and stormed to the table where cream and sugar were kept.

Loki did not suffer fools lightly, and this person had pushed him beyond his daily quota of idiocy, Midgardian or otherwise. Teeth set, he waved his hand under the table, and watched as the odious mortal's cup of large coffee, black, took an unfortunate tumble.

_ "Fuckin' A!"_ he bellowed as the scalding hot liquid spilled down his front and onto the floor. His voice carried throughout the store and everyone present turned to stare at him – all but the woman with the laptop, who looked straight at Loki. Their eyes met briefly, still reflected in the window, and then she focused her gaze back on her computer.

_Hmm._

Loki reached in his pocket and pulled out a mobile phone; another useless invention of Earth, used primarily for the purposes of communication and crushing illusory confectioneries, and not necessarily in that order. It did, however, lend the user an air of being busy, and he started to thumb through Luke LaFey's inbox, keeping the woman in his sights all the while.

Physically, she appeared to be about his age, with short, sand-colored hair and bright brown eyes. She had a nervous, harried air about her, and a face that probably earned her a few second glances, but nothing else suggested she was anything out of the ordinary.

His instincts told him otherwise.

_Just exactly what are you?_

Curious, he waved his hand beneath the table once more, this time upturning a small display of metal travel mugs. They hit the ground with a jarring clatter; again, all heads involuntarily turned in the direction of the sound, and the woman's gaze went right back to him.

Realizing she had caught his attention, she dropped her eyes back down poked at a couple of keys on her laptop.

_Very_ curious now – maybe she was one of these mutant varieties that had SHIELD so riled up about as of late? – Loki picked up his now-tepid cup and sent a burst of thermal energy into his fingertips, reheating the creamy liquid until it was almost steaming.

The woman froze for the briefest moment and then resumed her typing, her fingers now flying across the keyboard. To the average observer she seemed merely absorbed in her work, but Loki was not the average observer, and the explanation behind her reactions was easily inferred:

_ She senses magic. _

Tony Stark would have to wait, he decided. This situation required his immediate attention.

He took a final draught from his cup and then rose to his feet, deliberately walking by the woman's table on his way to the exit. He tripped slightly as he went, catching his toe on an invisible obstacle, and threw his hand out to grasp her chair as he regained his balance.

"Sorry," he apologized, flashing a quick smile.

She didn't return it, and he was on his way out the door only seconds later, but the interlude had been long enough for him to reach into her bag, which she'd left hanging from the back of her seat.

The rain had subsided to a misty drizzle when he reached the sidewalk, and he turned his collar up against the damp as he headed to the newspaper stand across the street. Tabloids were a guilty pleasure of his (if the Realm Eternal lacked anything, it was a steady supply of trashy, sensationalist journalism), and he couldn't think of a better way to bide his time as he waited for the woman to make her exit.

After a quick perusal of the newsstand's offerings, he selected a magazine and began to leaf through its pages. The media's fascination with Asgard persisted, he was surprised to find. Time of year likely had something to do with it; the world was coming up on the third anniversary of the Battle of New York, and multiple articles were devoted to the topic. More than once Loki came across photos of himself taken the night he was in Stuttgart, as well as grainy images that had been captured during the Chitauri's melee.

He was snickering over an in-depth psychological profile entitled 'Loki: Of Gods, Monsters and Mischief' when his target emerged from the coffee shop. She paused there on the sidewalk, glancing to her left, and then to her right, wanting to make sure the coast was clear before leaving. Her gaze went to the newsstand, but he blended in well enough with the crowd that she looked right over him; and thus reassured she would not be followed, she turned and disappeared into the throngs of pedestrians.

As soon as he lost sight of her, Loki set aside the magazine and took out the wallet he had appropriated from her bag. The plastic cards he found within were expired, as was her driver's license, which listed her name as _Nolan, Sabrina Mae. _Her address, he noticed, was on the same street as the coffee shop, but several blocks in the opposite direction from where she had been headed.

"Hey, golden boy," a grumpy voice inquired beside him.

Loki – having never been referred to as golden anything a day in his life, and forgetting that he currently sported a head of blond curls – did not immediately pick up on the fact the newspaper proprietor was addressing him.

"You gonna buy anything or just stand there and look pretty?" he demanded when Loki finally thought to look up.

"Neither," Loki answered smoothly. He tucked the wallet back in his pocket and turned to leave, grazing a stack of magazines with his fingers as he walked away.

_"Jesus Christ!" _he heard the man yelp a few moments later. This utterance was followed by the sound of piles of magazines and newspapers toppling onto cement, and shouts of, _"Snakes! Watch out, snakes! What the fucking hell!"_

They were, in fact, eels and not snakes, but Loki merely smiled to himself and continued walking.

* * *

His good mood was gone by the time he reached Nolan's apartment; he hated being wet but vanity kept him from using an umbrella, even when walking a long distance in the rain.

A woman was hurrying through the building's main entrance as he approached, which spared him the hassle of charming the lock, and he was able to enter the lobby unnoticed. He stepped into the elevator, waited for the doors to close, and then brought his core temperature up to a level sufficiently hot to dry the moisture from his clothes.

Curls of steam were still wafting from his coat when the elevator doors re-opened, revealing a brightly lit hallway and a garish painting of clowns cavorting through Central Park. This framed atrocity did not improve upon a second inspection, and as Loki walked by the painting on his way out of the elevator, a Midgardian adage floated through his head: "You can't make chicken salad out of chicken shit."

Indeed.

He walked in silence, rolling his eyes every now and then at the various trinkets and baubles that adorned most of the doors: out-of-season wreaths, the odd bumper sticker, manically-smiling figures whose shirts spelled out the word WELCOME. Having spent his life surrounded by the sweeping glamour of Asgard, Loki found these embellishments to be tawdry at best, but none were as odious to him as the clown painting – except, perhaps, the occasional stickers bearing the phrase _NYC Avengers._

Nolan's apartment was at the far end of the hallway, and aside from the numerals 527 painted on the front, he found her entryway to be otherwise unmolested. After confirming the door was locked, he waved his hand over the mottled brass knob and prepared to go inside. The was a quiet click as the deadbolt's tumblers shifted, but then he heard the slightest of creaks, a telltale sign that someone had crept into place on the opposite side of the threshold and was now lying in wait for him to make his entrance.

Well, no need to disappoint. He turned the knob, entered, and had no sooner closed the door behind him when he felt the unmistakable sensation of a gun barrel pressing into his back.

"If you're looking for more coffee," a female voice said pleasantly, "I'm fresh out. Turn around."

Loki smirked, certain that this was Nolan. Lucky for her, he was in an indulgent mood and did as she requested, even going so far as to hold his hands aloft as he rotated in place. He felt less inclined to humor the woman when he found himself staring down the business end of a double-barreled shotgun.

A rakish grin came over his face; Nolan was by no means short, but her weapon was almost as long as she was tall, likely to knock her flat on her back if she made the unfortunate choice of firing it.

"This is unwise," he warned her.

"Who said I was wise?" she retorted.

He went to lower his hands, and she moved her finger to the trigger. Loki looked down at the length of black steel pressing into his sternum, and then back up at Nolan, his smile widening.

"I have no wish to hurt you," he said firmly. "I'm only here for information, nothing more."

She didn't budge from her defensive position. "Information about what?"

"You."

"What, like you want me to give you a brochure or something?" she exclaimed. She went to continue, but recognition abruptly came into her eyes, followed by unbridled irritation.

"Oh, for –" Nolan set down the shotgun and glared at him. "Coulson sent you, didn't he?"

Loki came by his nickname of Liesmith honestly if not honorably, and at any given time was equipped with as many cover stories as he was throwing knives. It was rare when he could not think of a reply that would shift a parley back to his advantage, even when presented with questions or unexpected turns in conversation. This mention of Coulson, however – moreover, its clear implication of the man's survival from their previous encounter – caught him wholly off guard.

"I know you're just the messenger and that you're following orders," Nolan was saying, taking no notice of his confusion as she shoved past him into the dusty living room, "but do me a favor and tell your boss he's about one B&E short of a restraining order. I don't need a baby sitter."

_Bee and E?_ Loki wondered, only half-listening as he regained his composure. What did this reference? Baldr and Eir? Bragi and Eostre?

"Wait a second," he heard Nolan gasp. She whirled around to face him, wearing an accusatory glare of outrage. "He bugged you, didn't he?!"

She stormed over to Loki before he could answer and began to unceremoniously poke and prod at him as she searched for something on his person. He tolerated these indignities, stone-faced, until she grabbed his arm to start inspecting his sleeve.

"Madam, I can assure you that Agent Coulson is not monitoring our conversation," he declared, grasping both of her wrists and pushing her back from him.

"Then why are you here?" she demanded. "Who are you?"

Loki smiled a bland smile, already settling into his new persona and the milquetoast mannerisms that accompanied it; it seemed only logical that any lawyer on SHIELD's retainer would be as insipid as their agents.

"A representative of SHIELD," he replied smoothly. "Legal," he added.

_"Legal?"_ she repeated, baffled. "Wow." She looked him up and down, then smiled the smile of someone who wasn't sure whether to be impressed or pitying. "They've really changed your uniforms. Aren't you guys supposed to be blending in?"

Assuming she was referring to the cut and quality of his suit – which was admittedly leaps and bounds above SHIELD's paltry standard-issue garb – Coulson wouldn't know a fine suit if it slapped him in the face – Loki dodged the question and extended his hand.

"Agent Luca Rogers," he said, adopting the soldier's surname on a whim; if this this scheme were to fail, he did not want LaFey's name associated with any ensuing fallout.

"Sabrina Nolan," she answered shortly, returning his deliberately-limp handshake. "But you already knew that."

"Ah – yes." He adopted a rueful expression and continued, "I would have introduced myself, but –"

"But you broke into my old apartment before you had the opportunity to formally make my acquaintance," she finished dryly. "Right. Almost missed that part."

Loki just maintained the same bland smile, waiting. His web of lies stood at the ready, but silence was often a far more effective means of extracting information than inquiry, and he was curious to see what Nolan would reveal of her own accord.

She leaned against the back of the couch and gave him a hard, appraising look.

"What was up with you, back there at the coffee shop?" she said after a long moment's silence. "Are you guys testing some kind of new device? I've never felt a spike like that – not from anybody."

With his suspicion confirmed, Loki began to test the waters, probing carefully; her eyes held a multitude of questions, and he had answers for each and every one, but it was important to not reveal too much too soon.

"A spike?" he repeated, frowning.

She nodded. "Yeah – SHIELD has some fancy name for it. Sith – seth – seithr…" She squeezed her eyes shut, struggling to remember, but then finally shook her head and looked at him. "Sorry," she apologized. "My memory is still pretty shot."

"I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage," Loki said; his tone was uncertain, but he knew full well the word Nolan was unable to recall: Seidr – power.

_Idiot, _he chastised himself. He'd kept SHIELD under his watch, but not close enough, it seemed. Exactly what had the little mortals been up to that they were dabbling with Seidr? And how had they not already blown themselves to bits?

It was then that an unpleasant revelation occurred to him. His accord with Odin had given no specifics as to the form his reparations needed to take, only that he needed to atone for his crimes on Earth and Jotunheim. Surely the Allfather had not intended Loki's penance to also include playing the role of Midgardian _nursemaid_ for the rest of his days…!

_Or perhaps that is precisely what you intended, _Loki reflected darkly, his fists clenching as he recalled those agonizing final moments at Odin's bedside._ Making me an offer I could never refuse, knowing I would agree to __**anything**__ if it meant being able –_

"Are you okay?"

Nolan's voice pulled him out of his livid abstraction; his voice had trailed off for only a second or two, but judging from her look of concern, she had sensed all was not right with Agent Rogers. He apologized, made a generic excuse about having had a long day, and then continued:

"My orders were simply to bring you in. There was no mention of…spikes."

Looking suddenly drained, Nolan let out a sigh and ran both hands through her hair, mulling this over. Then she dropped her arms back down and cast a sidelong glance in his direction, one eyebrow quirked, short hair standing wildly on end.

"Why did SHIELD send a lawyer to get me?" she inquired. Her voice was tired but matter-of-fact, and Loki knew what she wasn't saying: _I'm on to you_. "More to the point, since when do lawyers take orders from anybody? Or are you just a really shitty attorney?"

His Asgardian sensibilities recoiled at hearing a woman make such casual use of a profanity, but he smiled politely and replied, "No, just an attorney who at present is very low on Director Fury's legal food chain – something I hope to remedy in the future."

She was about to ask him another question when the chime of the elevator at the end of the hallway reached his ears, followed by approaching footsteps – five, maybe six people, he estimated. These sounds fell outside of the range of human hearing, but Nolan was observant enough to notice his change in countenance and straightened up from the couch.

"What's wrong?"

The door burst open before he could reply; five armed men flooded into the room with weapons brandished, accompanied by a woman clad in a black power suit that had no business of seeing the light of day again, ever.

"What the hell!" Nolan yelped as they crowded inside; two men headed straight for her, flanking her on either side as the remaining three directed their armaments at Loki – Destroyer guns, he grimly noted.

For the second time that day he raised his hands into the air, thinking unmentionable thoughts of what might transpire if he were forced to do it a third time. His options were limited. It would be child's play to fight his way out, but if it were at all possible he preferred that LaFey's credentials remain unscathed. SHIELD was undoubtedly recording every second of this encounter, and vanishing in mid-air would compromise the identity he worked so hard to build; getting on Stark's VIP list had been no easy thing, and he would rather gut himself on Gungnir than go through it a second time.

The woman in the misfortunate suit strode forward, her eyes locked on him, but Nolan cut her off at the pass and darted between them.

_"This _is the dynamic duo's idea of not keeping tabs on me?" she challenged. "Tell Fury and Coulson –"

"State your name and purpose," the woman interrupted, addressing Loki.

_Maria Hill, _he recalled as he stared back at her. Barton had provided quite the dossier about Agent Maria Hill – Nick Fury's left-hand minion, second to Coulson. Ambitious, highly qualified for her position, and not afraid to challenge her superiors if she questioned their judgment.

"I have no quarrel with any you – yet," he replied evenly, his hands still raised. The undertone of malice in his voice, however, was unmistakable, and the woman responded in kind.

"You're posing as an agent and infiltrated the home of one of our assets," Hill snapped. "By my standards, that's a quarrel. State your name and purpose."

He turned and smiled at Nolan, who looked back at him warily, now second-guessing her decision to come to his defense.

"Is it a crime to be interested in an attractive woman?" he inquired innocently, hiding his smirk when Nolan blinked in surprise.

"When it concerns this woman, then yes," Hill retorted. "Brynn, step away from –"

"He didn't infiltrate anything," Nolan interjected. "I let him in."

_Flattery will get you everywhere, _Loki gloated to himself.

"And greeted him at the door with a shotgun?" Hill asked skeptically. She gestured to where the weapon in question stood propped up in a corner.

Nolan shrugged and removed a small cylinder from her pocket, idly turning it over in her fingers. "I was cleaning it."

The object she held was red and tipped in gold metal; Loki had scant familiarity with Earth's deliciously pathetic concept of weaponry, but he recognized munitions when he saw them, and smothered a wild urge to laugh.

_Take note, Loki,_ he observed, making a less-than-valiant effort at concealing his contempt. _When you next visit this realm, mind the gap, steer clear of flavoured coffees, and remember your breastplate._

"Ma'am? Agent – Agent Hill? Ma'am?" A new voice came echoing from the corridor outside, its owner rushing inside the apartment seconds later. He was slightly built, with hair only a bit less curly and blonde than LaFey's, and carried a small piece of red-and-black machinery that was beeping shrilly and increased in pitch the closer he came in proximity to Loki, who bared his teeth at the grating noise.

Hill tore her eyes away from him and glanced at the newcomer.

"The readings," he sputtered, still panting from what seemed to have been a mad dash, "the readings – they're unbelievable! We haven't seen anything like it since –"

Agent Hill threw a glare of _Don't-even-think-about-trying-whatever-it-is-you're-thinking-about-trying_ at Loki (who let out a scornful chuckle) and Nolan (who was looking more and more like a sullen teenager than a grown woman with every passing second) before motioning the younger man over.

"How off the charts?" she asked as he bounded to her side and handed the device to her.

"Just _look_ at it!" he said earnestly. "It's the strangest thing, too – we haven't had any signs of atmospheric disturbances. All's been quiet on the Western front, really."

Watching him, Loki was reminded of a rabbit so delighted at the prospect of discovering a new burrow that it failed to notice it was blithely hopping into the jaws of a carnivorous beast.

"Is that the thing that wouldn't shut up on the way over here?" muttered one of the guards beside him.

"I thought I'd lost the receiver ages ago!" the boy was saying as Hill squinted at the gadget's tiny screen and poked at one of the dials. "But it started – wait, wait, wait!" he protested, now desperately trying to snatch the device back from her.

"The alarm, Fitz," Agent Hill said wearily, letting him take it. "Turn it off. Before you give us all migraines."

"Want me to shoot it?" Nolan offered.

Fitz threw her a dirty look and turned a switch on the device; the noise ceased, and Hill focused on the screen once more. He continued to hover alongside her, saying, "We've triple checked it and it's not an anomalous signature. I'm certain it's accurate but – I'm sorry – sir?" He looked at Loki and smiled brightly. "What did you say your name was? And where are you from?"

"I didn't," Loki replied coolly.

Hill's face had turned to stone during this interim, and when she lifted her gaze from the screen and back towards Loki, he knew the idiomatic jig was about to be up. Whatever the screen indicated to her had clearly bridged the gap between his mortal facade and her colleague's mindless enthusiasm. She knew.

"Brynn, describe this man," she ordered.

Nolan looked at her blankly. "Huh? You mean Fitz?"

Agent Hill let out a huff of frustration and inclined her head in Loki's direction. "No. _Him."_

Loki watched with disinterest as Nolan glanced his way, swallowed, and then turned back to Agent Hill. Her expression grew cagey. "Why?" she asked.

"Just describe him," Hill said, clenching her teeth.

Their pointless repartee tipped Loki's temper across the fine line between simmering and seething. What infernal game was this? What did it matter how Nolan perceived him versus whatever Maria Hill and her neophyte's precious apparatus indicated?

"You're not blind," Nolan was saying. _"You_ describe him."

Loki rolled his eyes and went to lower his hands, glaring daggers when five Destroyer guns rose in tandem, aimed straight at his skull. Hill took notice and signaled to two of the agents, who came to stand on either side of him – a show of force meant to intimidate, but instead served only to burn away his last vestiges of patience.

Enough, he decided. To hell with maintaining the identity of Luke LaFey. He would swallow his own helmet before he continued subjecting himself to this tedious farce, let alone play a part in it. Nolan could be looked in on at another time.

Loki silently called an invisibility spell out of the air and prepared to make a fiery exit, but the magic at his fingertips drained away when he noticed the imploring look Nolan was sending in his direction – as if she wanted him to somehow _tell_ her the answer Agent Hill wasn't seeking regarding his appearance.

_Gods of all the realms, _he mused. _The little fool is on my side._

To her credit – her very _minor_ credit – Hill rapidly clued into Nolan's attempt at subterfuge and took a mobile phone from her pocket, thumbing across the surface a few times before holding it out to the other woman. Loki caught a glimpse at the screen and tried not to grimace – displayed there in five-inch, high definition, at the most unflattering angle possible, was his face, captured mid-battle with none other than Captain America.

Fitz gulped; he had also seen the image and now seemed to be having difficulty breathing. "My God," he murmured, looking down at his device and turning two of the dials at feverish speed. "That's –"

"Any resemblance?" Agent Hill inquired, talking over him. Her tone made it clear that she expected no indication to the contrary from Nolan.

Mounting curiosity overrode Loki's desire to retreat, and he stayed rooted in place as Nolan reluctantly reached out to take the phone. One of her earlier remarks popped into his mind – _They've really changed your uniforms. Aren't you guys supposed to be blending in?_

Beneath the visage of LaFey's Armani, he was clad in his everyday garb – green shirt, leather tunic and trousers, bracers, and boots. Nothing that would remotely blend in, even in a city with such varied interpretation of dress as Manhattan.

His eyes widened.

_She sees me. She sees through the illusion._

Understanding dawned upon him at last, bringing with it painful clarity and an answer so implausible that the mind reeled. Puzzle pieces that had eluded him since he first laid eyes on Sabrina Nolan were settling neatly into place, yet he remained blind to the completed image – why?

Loki's vision took an abrupt shift in scope, and everyone but the mortal faded into his periphery. Was she extraordinarily stupid or had she spent the last three years marooned on an island? His face was well-advertised, as evidenced from his reading earlier that day – how did she not know to run away in the coffee shop, screaming, when she laid eyes on the god who tried to enslave humanity?

But more importantly…_how_ did she possess the ability to sense magic, _and see past it as well?_

Those with supernatural talents were rare albeit not unheard of, but mortals were of a different constitution, too basic, too primitive – it was simply _not possible._

Loki made a swift review of the immediate responsibilities awaiting him at home; as sovereign of Asgard, the Allfather kept a tight schedule, but everything of import on his to-do list paled in comparison to the matter now at hand. He could spare some time to study this female, even if it meant going through the trouble of getting captured by SHIELD and escaping them later – and maybe have a bit of fun while he was at it.

Cheered by this prospect – perhaps he might spell Nick Fury into sprouting some hair – he turned his thoughts to the one who was always watching and sent a message, using the summonsing conduit he'd conjured for occasions such as these.

_Heimdall, I am going to be late. Make my excuses to the delegation from Vanaheim, and have the Allfather's simulacrum at the ready in the event I am further delayed. _

The gatekeeper's response was dripping in sarcasm, but prompt: _As you will, my king._

"I don't know what you're talking about," Nolan was saying when Loki terminated the conduit; she gave a dismissive one-shouldered shrug and handed the phone back to Agent Hill.

Hill stiffened at Nolan's response, and something akin to disappointment flickered across her face. Then her expression hardened.

"Casey, stay with her," she ordered, stuffing her phone back into her skirt pocket. "The rest of you – from this moment forward, you are not to let this man out of your sight."

Like any well-trained puppets, they responded immediately. One man stepped beside Nolan as the other four came to surround Loki. The barrels of their Destroyer guns flared and began to glow, ominous reminders that unlike Nolan's little red cylinder, these were weapons that could do him harm.

He said nothing but didn't bother to hide his smirk as Hill approached him, her eyes gleaming with loathing – and satisfaction.

"Agent Hill," he acknowledged with a courteous nod. "It's been far too long. Although if memory serves, we were never properly introduced. Shall we take care of that now?"

"Drop the magic tricks," she told him coldly. "I know who you are."

Loki raised his chin in haughty acknowledgement – he took orders from no one, but there was also no merit in expending needless energy – and closed his eyes, allowing the illusion to melt away.

Gasps and gawks came from the audience as beams of light twisted around him, shifting the hue and length of his hair, restoring his natural pallor and eye colour, and replacing his suit with his usual clothing. Seven pairs of eyes stared back at him in astonishment; Nolan, he noted, only looked confused.

The glamor faded, and an awkward silence fell.

_One Svartalfheim, two Svartalfheim, three Svartalfheim…_

When he reached ten, Loki went to ask Agent Hill if she would consider granting permission for him to lower his hands, but an unintelligible stammering broke through the quiet. The spluttered syllables were coming from the young man named Fitz, who was still struggling to reconcile reality and the so-called gospel truth of SHIELD's briefing memos.

"But…! But he – " He squeezed his eyes shut, opened them again, shuddered when he saw that, yes, he was really seeing what he thought he was seeing, and then looked beseechingly at Agent Hill. "But he's _supposed_ to be de – "

"Go notify Director Fury," she bellowed, cutting him off mid-word, and adding a frustrated, _"Now,"_ when he started to protest.

Loki picked up on the urgency in her voice when she said this last part and filed it away for future reference. They were hiding something, and he had a fairly good guess as to whom they were keeping in the dark.

Fitz, in the meantime, had gone the colour of whey, unsure what prospect he found more terrifying: Holding a conversation with Nick Fury, or remaining within a stone's throw of none other than the God of Mischief himself.

"Oh bloody hell," he said weakly. He spun on his heel and exited.

Hill turned her attention back on Loki, who mockingly gestured to her with an open palm – _Your move._

"No helmet?" she quipped smugly, looking him over. "Hm. I'm disappointed."

At this, his mouth curved into its trademark Cheshire Cat grin, a gleeful trickster's smile that the Realms had been deprived of for far too long.

"Oh, Agent Hill," he replied, chuckling. "The same could be said for me regarding _your_ attire. Tell me –" He made a lazy up-and-down motion to her outfit, which hit her in all the wrong places – and her flaming red cheeks told him that she knew it. "Was the promotion worth the wardrobe change? Or does SHIELD employ sadists as tailors?"

It was a testament to both Maria Hill's training and the horrid cut of her clothes that she did not order her men to start firing at will.

"Cuffs," she barked, not taking her eyes off of Loki. "Every pair you've got, I want on him. Casey –" She turned to the man flanking Nolan and said, "Take her in. And let Dr. Ives know we found her."

As Hill and her team worked to secure multiple pairs of handcuffs to Loki's wrists, Nolan's escort nudged her forward; she walked a few steps but then faltered, looking over her shoulder to the kitchen counter. There, tucked away beneath a pile of rags, was the corner of a blue laptop computer, the same he remembered seeing her with in the coffee shop.

"Come on, Brynn," her guard said quietly.

Her face fell, and she went to leave without further protest, glancing at Loki one last time before exiting.

Confident that Hill et al. were too busy lulling themselves into a false sense of security to take any notice, Loki mouthed a silent incantation and appropriated the laptop; to the naked eye it simply vanished from sight, but its molecular structure had been altered to fit within a two-dimensional space, flat enough to be folded and transferred into a pocket. It was a trick he had performed many times before, storing items about his person by way of razor-thin strips of matter, and then returning them to three-dimensional space when he had need of them.

A ninth pair of cuffs encircled his wrists and locked into place, and Agent Hill and the guard who'd been assisting her stepped back to survey their handiwork. Crude metal bracelets now marched halfway up both of Loki's forearms, linked together by flimsy silver chains.

This all felt vaguely familiar.

Stifling a laugh, he drew himself up to his full height and stated, "Allow me to compliment you on your efforts, gentlemen – and lady," he added in feigned deference to Agent Hill, who looked two seconds away from ripping out his throat. There was a flash of green light, and the handcuffs transformed and fell from his wrists. Supple lengths of silver coil hit the ground in their place, toys that he'd grown up calling _spregnan_ – or Slinkies, as they were referred to on Midgard.

The Destroyer guns surrounding him flared, and Agent Hill's glowering blue eyes bore into his as one of the springs rolled across the floor, coming to a lazy stop at her feet.

Loki clasped his hands behind his back and gave her a knowing smile. "Would you believe me if I promised to behave?"

"What the _hell_ do you think?" she snarled.

He raised his brows in thoughtful consideration. "Ah. I'll take that as a 'no.' "

A muffled curse – one of a far cruder sort than Nolan had uttered earlier – was Hill's only reply. Snickering, Loki allowed his sentinels to lead him out of the apartment and back into the elevator. He knew not where they planned to take him, but for originality's sake hoped that it involved something other than a flying fortress, empty threats, and a glass cage. Been there, done that, to quote the mortals. Besides…this was technically the first vacation he'd taken from Asgard since signing his life away to Odin. He _did_ want to make the most of it.

An hour later found him face-to-face with his estranged brother, and wishing the only thing he'd ever made the most of was his opportunity to never leave Manhattan, Nevada.

* * *

_AN: Hope you enjoyed this! Follow/review/bribe/leave a death threat (witty ones only, please. Oh hell, who am I kidding, I'll take the non-wittily-worded ones, too. OMG FRIENDS YAY) if you feel so inclined. Feedback makes the fanfic world go round, along with massive amounts of insecurity, glitter, and tea. Or, really top off my daily affirmation quota and find me on tumblr (wrathkitty dot tumblr dot com)! _

_Shoutout to ibonekoen1 – thanks much for the review :)_

_PS - If you ended up here from my "To my brother, Thor, whom I slept with" ficlet - thanks for taking the time to look. I hope you found this to be worth the read._


	3. Chapter Two

AN: If you've made it into the story this far, you may have clued into the fact I do a lot of character development. For those of you looking for Loki/OC funsexytimes, hang in there – it's coming. Pun intended.

* * *

Chapter Two:

You've got sucker's luck/Have you given up?

* * *

_ "I would have you tell me the truth," he requested softly, ducking his head a few inches to look his brother in the eye, "now, when I have a chance of getting an honest answer from you." His voice dropped to a heartfelt whisper as he finished, "For in this moment, I have you back, brother – and this time…I will not let you go."_

Instinctively Loki opened his mouth to reply but then closed it, realizing he had nothing to say. Thor had succeeded in rendering the Wordsmith speechless – temporarily, anyway.

"Fine words," he rasped, just managing to steady his voice before he added, "Do you ask me as my king, or as –"

"I ask you as one son of Frigga, to the other," Thor interrupted firmly. Loki was not sure whether to interpret this as a low blow or honest sentiment, but his heart gave a painful wrench in response nevertheless.

He didn't (couldn't?) resist when Thor reached out and clasped his hand around the back of his neck, and likewise Thor didn't look away when grey-blue blue eyes bore resentfully into his, because the malevolence in those glacial depths was tempered now – this was the Loki he knew.

"The truth, brother," he implored. "What are you doing on Midgard?"

Loki twisted out of Thor's grasp and tried to look anywhere but at his behemoth of a brother.

_Then am I not your mother?_

_ You are not._

Oh, what he would give, what he would do to be able to take back that conversation – anything, _anything_ to not to go his pyre with those damnable words forever seared into his memory. Odin was not his father, would _never_ be his father, but Frigga…

…Frigga would always be his mother.

Loki hadn't realized he'd squeezed his eyes shut, or that tears had started to prickle against his eyelids, and when he opened them he was greeted by the blurry sight of his hands where they rested in his lap.

He'd once thought his hands similar to hers.

They were larger and more callused, of course, but their shape was the same – long, slender fingers that were equally capable of flinging a dagger as they were weaving a spell.

He absently turned them over and studied his palms, his fingers, the way the knuckle on his left thumb persisted in being the slightest bit knobbier than the one of his right, a result of the former being double-jointed. Just like Frigga's.

Had she not perished, would he have told her the truth? That his descent from blind avarice into psychopathy had come not at his hands, but another's? Described to her how the Other eviscerated his soul and flayed away the layers of his very being, piece by piece, thought by thought, until he grew to embrace these ministrations, for in that torture was also truth: There was nothing – _**nothing!**_ – good or pure about him, and he would forever be unloved, unworthy, and alone.

Would Frigga have recognized, as he later did, that it was at that moment when Thanos successfully permeated his brain? From that point forward he'd been theirs to manipulate, via the scepter or any other means they saw fit. Not a marionette, but enough of a pawn that when Thor urged him to join forces and stop the Chitauri together, he'd started to waver _(You are no one's puppet! Throw away the staff and end this madness, now!)_, butthen plunged a dagger into his brother's side _(Frost Giant, no one's son, bastard, monster, demon, runt and Thor – glorious Thor, golden, loved, strong, Odinson, prince, Aesir, king)._

But far worst of all, when he finally, _finally_ was of sound mind again – only the Hulk was capable of ministering a blow of sufficient force to shake Thanos's hold – _no one_, not even _she,_ gave him the benefit of the doubt or entertained the _slightest_ possibility that his fall from the Asbru bridge was out of despair and not defiance, and that his subsequent actions on Earth were not completely of his own doing.

"Do you not truly feel the gravity of your crimes?" Odin had demanded that day in the throne room. "Wherever you go there is war, ruin, and death!"

_Tell me something I don't know, _Loki thought to himself as he gazed upon the man who was not his father, smirking all the while and wishing he were not so accomplished a liar, for then someone might have seen that it was not amusement that twisted his mouth, but sorrow.

A flaming arrow landed in what remained of his heart the moment he heard the name 'Loki Laufeyson' fall from Odin's lips, but he gathered up the ashes of his broken soul and ignored Frigga's repeated entreaties to not make things worse. He refused to defend himself to those who once claimed to love and know him best, and instead embraced their damning assumptions with the open arms that had been denied to him. Oh, he would forgive them all eventually, but not until he made them pay for their lack of faith, and dearly, too…until Malekith.

Malekith changed everything.

"I was able to heal myself after you and Jane Foster left me," Loki heard himself say after many minutes of silence. His voice was dull, devoid of emotion. When Thor made no comment, he took a deep breath and continued, toying restlessly with his chains as he spoke. "It was a…desperate scheme. One that I was not sure would work. After I regained my strength, I disguised myself as one of the Einherjar and then returned to Asgard to seek an audience with Odin."

"With Father?" Thor frowned, baffled as to why Loki would have sought out their father instead of going into hiding. "Why?"

"To kill him," Loki said simply.

Thor's face darkened. "Loki," he warned, his low voice dropping to a dangerous rumble, "where is Father now?"

"Dead."

"By who's hand?" he demanded, regretting this accusation the instant he said it, but unable to stop himself from adding, "Yours?"

"At his own," Loki barked, snapping his chin up to glare at Thor. His suspicion was hardly a shock, but it stung all the same.

The blood drained from Thor's face when he heard this. Faltering, he could only ask one word: "S-suicide?"

A warm, unfamiliar sensation welled up in Loki's chest at his brother's question, and it took him several moments before he was able to identify it – compassion. It had not been his intention to lead Thor into believing Odin had killed himself, and although there was a time he would have cheerfully let him sit and stew under such a cruel misassumption, he could derive no such pleasure from it now.

"No," he said; Thor's shoulders sagged in grief-stricken relief, "he lost the will to live after Frigga died. He fell into the Odinsleep immediately after the battle with Malekith and made no effort to wake himself. I have been ruling Asgard since, veiled under his likeness."

Loki watched with detached interest as his brother's anguished expression shifted into one of distrust, and waited for more accusations to land at his feet. Some things, it seemed, never changed. Perhaps someday he would stop feeling surprised by this fact.

More for comfort than in anticipation of needing to wield it, Thor placed a trembling hand on top of Mjolnir and chose his next words with care. "What treachery is at work here, Loki?"

"None of my own making," he retorted, using bluster and ire to conceal his shock at not automatically labeled as scapegoat. "This was Odin's brainchild; I merely agreed to it."

"Agreed to _what?"_ Thor's confusion was almost palpable, and his grip on the hammer tightened. "You just said a moment ago that you went to Asgard to kill Father, not to bargain with him –"

"I did go to kill him," Loki answered unapologetically, "and the circumstances of why I did not are of no concern of yours, but before he died he asked that I disguise myself as him and take the throne in his stead."

Thor was shaking his head in bewilderment now, trying with all his might to fit the pieces together and coming up blank every time. "But why?" he protested. "Or is this related to the penance you spoke of earlier?"

He was too busy being confused to notice how very close he'd come to hitting the mark; Loki started, then licked his lips and tilted his mouth into a faint smile, his face inscrutable once more.

"There are those who always lie in wait to usurp the throne, brother." Using the same tone he once employed when reminding Thor of other obvious truths, such as water running downhill, or Hogunn being tragically devoid of a personality, Loki explained, "Appointing me to rule under the guise of Odin spared Asgard from falling into a bloody war of succession. He knew his time grew short, just as he knew you would remain on Earth as long as Jane Foster lived."

Thor shuddered and dropped his gaze to the floor, not bothering to push away the hanks of blond hair that fell into his eyes, and mockery in Loki's voice gentled to a lilt that fell just short of kindness. "His hope was that you would return to assume the throne once she reached the end of her natural life," he continued. "I am a placeholder, and will step aside when you come to relieve me. My only request is that you wait a week or two before undoing all of my efforts," he finished in a sarcastic mutter.

Thor's eyes had been welling up with tears as he listened to all of this, and Loki idly studied the trail of one of these droplets as it fell, tracing a damp line down his cheek and then becoming lost in the blond whiskers of his beard. Thor had always been an open book to him, but for once he did not think ill of his brother for his inability to conceal his emotions – having his estranged sibling come back to life, being told of their father's death, and then learning the aforementioned not-dead brother had been sitting on the throne of his definitely-dead father would have been difficult for anyone to process.

At last Thor wiped his cheeks, took a long, ragged breath, and then fixed Loki with a knowing look. "And Father believed you would relinquish the throne so willingly if I came to reclaim it?"

Loki flinched. It was a fleeting expression, one that Thor had seen cross his brother's face countless times and knew as well as his own, and so he instantly noticed something amiss in that familiar twitch of eyes and cheek and mouth. For the first time he saw the faint lines on Loki's face where there had been none before, and now that he knew to look, he picked up on another detail – the odd white strand lying amidst the blackness of his brother's hair. Loki had aged. Minutely, but by Aesir (and Jotun) standards, these were subtle changes that should take place over the span of centuries, not months.

"I told you once, Thor," Loki said simply, misinterpreting Thor's frown of concern as one of mistrust. "I never wanted to be king. Just your equal. To step out of your shadow and be acknowledged in my own right, for my own self-worth, and not ride on the coattails of glory earned by association."

"Loki –" Thor's voice was pleading, but Loki ignored him, uninterested in hearing entreaties of why he was wrong to feel that he had been the lesser son. Such platitudes made no difference and they never would.

"As for your original question," he continued, speaking over him, "I came to Midgard to monitor you and your fellow Avengers. I was pursuing a loose end of sorts that had the unfortunate effect of bringing me to SHIELD's attention, and now yours. _Delighted_ as I am to see you, a trade negotiation with Vanaheim that's taking place in a few hours' time is going to end in shambles if I am not there to welcome them. _These_ –" He thrust his shackled wrists towards Thor " – are currently delaying my departure, and you know how much I do so hate being late."

Thor's jaw dropped. "Trade negotiations with Vanaheim?" he repeated, leaning forward. "You mean –"

"Yes, the same ones Odin has been trying to orchestrate since before you were born," Loki said crossly, sounding far more cavalier about the affair than he actually felt; his headache was getting worse and at this rate his skull would be split open by day's end. "It's taken a great deal of delicate maneuvering and I will be damned if I have to start from scratch again with that simpering buffoon of a prime minister because I was stuck here talking to you." Teeth bared, he brandished his wrists a second time and ordered, "Remove these immediately. I'll trust you to make my excuses to all of your friends here."

Thor blinked at him, startled. "You know I cannot take them off," he said, confused why Loki was even making the request.

_"What?" _

He lunged for Thor's neck without thinking, a feral growl escaping his lips when his brother slammed him back into his seat so hard he saw stars. Then it dawned on him that Thor was not refusing to release him but rather he'd been making a statement of fact, because of _course_ he would not have come bearing chains for the average prisoner, oh no, _he_ would have brought shackles that could only open at the command of either the Allfather or Gugnir. Loki was half-tempted to formally congratulate Thor on this rare moment of scrupulousness, and might have even a feast to mark the occasion had it not come at such an inopportune time.

Feeling stupid for his earlier outburst, Loki wasted no time barking instructions: "Go to Asgard. Tell Heimdall what's happened; he is the only one aware of my arrangement with Odin. Fetch Gugnir, and then return here at once."

He waited impatiently for Thor to start moving, but his brother continued to sit there wearing a brooding expression that in another life Loki would have relished slapping off of him just for spite's sake. He appeared to be fighting some kind of internal battle, torn between making one decision or another –

"No," Loki said with mounting alarm, realizing what had him so troubled, "no, no, Thor, do _not_ –"

"I must," Thor declared, his voice pained but determined. "I cannot return to free you until I see Asgard for myself," he said flatly.

"And see _what?"_ Loki hissed. He knew there was no dissuading Thor but he persisted anyway, his voice growing dangerously sarcastic as he demanded, "That I have not laid waste to her citizens your absence? That I've refrained from melting Jotunheim into a lake, or wreaking havoc upon any other world that I deem unworthy? That –"

_ "You know what I mean!"_ Thor bellowed, slamming his fist on the table; two of the four legs creaked, buckling under the impact.

"Yes, I know what you mean," Loki snarled angrily, "because that's what I've always been good at, isn't it, Thor? Reading between the lines of your oafish vitriol and so-called _compassion."_ He threw himself against his chair, seething.

"I want to believe your sincerity, Loki," Thor insisted, speaking to the back to Loki's shoulder now, "but you have fooled me too many times. Your rage I could trust, but your sincerity…I cannot. Not yet."

"And is there no hope of my changing your opinion of me?" Loki spat.

A hand gripped his shoulder and squeezed, hard; the anger churning throughout Loki's veins started to curdle, returning his lifeblood to its usual state of self-loathing.

"There is _always_ hope," he heard Thor say.

Loki shoved his hand away, more affected by these words than he was willing to admit. "If only the same could be said for my negotiations with the Vanir," he intoned darkly.

"I will take care of the delegation from Vanaheim," Thor announced as he rose from his seat. He deliberately ignored his brother's eye roll and derisive snigger, and inquired, "Where is the Bifrost site?"

Loki closed his eyes and reached up with one hand, pinching the bridge of his nose in hopes of providing some measure of relief to his pounding head. It didn't help. "At the top of Stark's tower."

Thor let out a short bark of laughter. "Hiding in plain sight, brother?" he chuckled, sobering when Loki shot him an icy glare of disgust. He finished clasping Mjolnir to his belt and then remarked, "You never were subtle in conveying your scorn."

Eyes still closed, Loki permitted himself the tiniest smirk as he envisioned what Stark's reaction would be upon seeing the state of his landing pad. The modifications Heimdall and he had made to the Bifrost kept it effectively hidden from SHIELD's purview, but thus far they had not succeeded in concealing its landing imprint. Scorched atop the Stark Industries logo was now an intricate Norse knot of massive – and indelible – proportions.

"I am always subtle," Loki retorted; he let his hand fall from his nose and opened his eyes. "That does not mean I don't also take satisfaction in rubbing another's face in his own folly. Speaking of, when _your_ trade negotiations inevitably fail –"

"They will not fail, brother," Thor said in earnest; he was busy readjusting the table leg that had borne the brunt of his earlier outburst. "You use wit and cleverness to conduct negotiations, whereas I –" He set the table back in place and finished, "use other means. Both are equally effective, I assure you."

He bestowed Loki with a smile that was all confidence and sunlit days, and Loki gripped both hands to his chair to stop himself from doing something rash, like setting his brother on fire and then dousing the blaze with a boiling kettle of water.

"You plan on getting them all stone-cold drunk," Loki accused. He considered this for a moment and then grudgingly admitted, "Your idea has merit, I'll give you, but the prime minister is notorious for abstaining from mead and wine."

"Then I shall offer him neither," Thor said with a shrug. "Midgard sports a number of alcoholic beverages that I am sure will be to his liking. Are you familiar with the 'boilermaker?' "

Loki resisted the urge to bang his head on the table repeatedly, and instead awarded Thor with a pained look that clearly conveyed that, No, he was not familiar with the 'boilermaker,' and even if he were, he would not provide such a stupid question with the dignity of a response.

"I will have to ask Jane's advice on the best manner in which to transport the tankards," Thor was saying, now sounding a little distracted.

"What is SHIELD to do with me in the interim?" Loki asked irritably. He could care less how Thor and his pet dwarf planned to ferry Midgardian libations through the Bifrost, unless perhaps several caskets ended up smashed atop Heimdall's head, followed by Jane Foster wiping him dry with an angry cat. Then Loki would care very much indeed.

Thor's smile faded. "I will share with them what you have told me," he answered as he came to stand before him, "and that you are not to be harmed or in any way mistreated until I return."

"What a tremendous idea," Loki exclaimed as though Thor had just come with the most brilliant of schemes; Thor, knowing full-well that Loki was mocking him, quirked his mouth in exasperation and said nothing as Loki continued, "I've no doubt that Director Fury and his disciples will take you at your word when you tell them the good news of my reform – or maybe you plan to convince them by knocking their heads together with Mjolnir, and if that is the case, then by all means, start swinging."

"Actually," Thor replied, a perplexed look coming over his face, "they may not need much convincing at all. As I was preparing to leave, Jane said there was mention of SHIELD needing your assistance – something concerning a mortal."

_ Sabrina Nolan,_ Loki thought to , perhaps the day would not be a complete waste, after all.

He turned his attention back to Thor, who stood watching him with the same hopeful look he often wore when they were sparring together in the practice yards as boys. For all his brawn and bluster, Thor had genuinely wanted Loki to best him – never mind that he would burst into laughter with the rest of the class when Loki fell flat on his face – but in their youth, brotherly love always seemed to trump pride.

When had everything changed?

_The when doesn't matter_. _And neither does the why. _

Bitterness filled his heart, dispelling whatever warmth had been trying to creep into its place, and his face settled into a mask of composure that they both knew he did not feel.

"I will return as fast as I am able," Thor said finally, turning to go.

Loki responded with a dismissive nod and looked away. He could still feel the pressure of Thor's hand upon his shoulder, a phantom squeeze that brought with it a tangled mass of contradictions – _You have fooled me too many times…There is always hope…Stay with me – stay with me!_

Unbidden, the question, "Is surrender still not in your nature?" left his mouth; he did not at first realize he'd spoken at all, and then scrambled to reassemble his veneer of haughty indifference, but Thor was already turning from the door to look back at him and it was too late to pretend his heart hadn't just betrayed his better judgment.

Thor's broad shoulders had sagged, sorrow stealing away the light from his eyes. He knew the conversation Loki was referencing.

His answer was brief and quietly stated: "It is not."

Similarly, satisfaction was still not in Loki's nature, yet he found himself venturing forth with the scheme he'd dreamed up on a whim some months earlier.

"I have a solution," he offered, "to the matter we once discussed regarding Jane Foster. If you care to hear it."

Thor could only nod.

"As the Allfather, I have the ability to make you mortal," Loki explained, "and then restore your powers after Jane…" In a rare moment of empathy, he stopped there and let his voice trail off, but the tightening of Thor's hand on Mjolnir indicated that he understood Loki's unfinished statement.

"You would likely be an aged man by that point," he warned, "and would assume the throne as such. But it would enable you both to live out her natural life together."

Thor did not speak but took a faltering step towards Loki, gazing at his brother as if he'd just handed him a miracle.

_You've gone soft, Laufeyson,_ Loki chided himself. He should have been tasting bile in the back of his throat, not the sweet flavour of mercy.

"Y-you would do this for me?" Thor breathed, his voice thick with unshed tears. "For – for us?"

A humourless smile flitted across Loki's face; how typical of Thor of ask such a stupid question. He was making this offer not for Thor, or Jane Foster, or Asgard – he was making this offer for Frigga, who had loved Thor, and died protecting the woman Thor loved.

Dodging the question, Loki wearily said, "I have no desire to see Asgard fall into needless war. I could take a wife, but my Jotun blood makes siring an heir an impossibility, and even if that were not the case," he lifted one shoulder in careless resignation, "it was always Odin's intention for you to be king. Sif waits for you, brother," he continued, not feeling the slightest bit of sympathy when Thor grimaced at the mention of his former lover, "and she will continue to wait."

"Sif's affections would be better –"

"Oh, spare me your sentimental blathering," Loki snapped. If there was one thing he could not stand, it was a guilty conscience, because gods knew he had enough experience with _that_ to last him several lifetimes. "You know as well as I that duty comes before selfish ambition," he admonished Thor, deliberately quoting the oath they had both sworn to keep. "I have it in my power to grant you a temporary reprieve from these responsibilities; you should be feeling grateful, not guilty. But," he added, an edge coming into his voice, "if you continue to stand there goggling at me and do not leave _now_, you can forget I ever made the offer at all."

Thor nodded and forced himself to focus; he'd almost forgotten that he was supposed to be making preparations for his diplomatic mission to Asgard.

"What shall I tell them if they ask for you?" he asked, then corrected himself, saying, "I mean, for…Odin?"

Loki was only half-listening, having clasped both hands over his face in an attempt to block out some of the harsh light beaming from overhead. _Is this was mortals refer to as a migraine? _he wondered. His head continued to pound, and his hands slid apart, fingertips coming to press into either side of his temples.

"Brother?"

"Tell them Odin is observing the anniversary of his Aunt Snotra's death in solitude," Loki instructed with a sigh, "and so sent the mighty Thor in his stead."

Thor gave him a heartfelt smile. Then, out of deference to Loki's hatred of long, drawn-out farewells (or fear of his reaction if he attempted to embrace him), he left without saying another word, the retreating echo of his footsteps serving as his goodbye.

Loki turned away from the door, closed his eyes, and tried not to dwell on how long it would be until he heard that lumbering gait once more.


End file.
